


Dead (Or not so much)

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A lot of them - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Jeremiah is just living his life and Jerome rises from the dead, Jeremiah isn’t happy about it, Mentioned Jerome Valeska, Newspapers, One Shot, ft. coffee, he’s not really there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: Jeremiah has been watching since day one.





	Dead (Or not so much)

Jeremiah has been watching since day one. Ever since that short article on the tenth page in the newspaper one random morning. It had been vague, no names, barely any details and filled with almost nothing but speculations and assumptions, but Jeremiah knew. Needing nothing but the title and the first sentence, Jeremiah knew.

Circus.

Murder.

Jerome.

It hadn’t been rocket science. Anyone with two brain cells and an - unfortunate - relation to Jerome could put two and two together and figure that one out. Jeremiah hadn’t exactly been surprised. Leaving the circus once and for all that night, kissing his mother goodbye, eyeing Jerome where he slept in the cramped room in the trailer, Jeremiah knew that at some point it’d happen. Jerome and their mother had never - almost never - been on very good terms. It was inevitable. Bad people did bad things. And Jerome wasn’t an exception, because he was bad. He was born bad. He really was.

He’d honestly expected it to happen much sooner while Jerome was still young and had a better chance of getting away with it. Because who would blame a little child? Especially the one of the victim.  
On the other hand, he wouldn’t be surprised if Jerome wanted to get caught. Jerome was a showman. A thrill-seeker. A show-off. Why wouldn’t he want everyone to know just how bad he really was? Perhaps he enjoyed it, watching the police run around like headless chickens looking for the answers to this mystery, all the while he sat there, right under their noses with his innocent-now-orphan-boy persona. 

Who was he kidding, of course he enjoyed it.

It wasn’t until several days later the police finally caught on. It had been quiet until then. People, specifically the newspapers, had their suspicions that they shared and Jeremiah enjoyed reading them. They were just so far off it was almost funny. The theories some people could come up with were insane. Jeremiah’s personal favourite had been one about the snake being behind it, and therefore concluding it as some sort of accident rather than a murder. He’d cut that one out and placed it in the drawer of his nightstand, right with the very first article. It would be a nice little souvenir once the truth was out - if the police would just figure it out already that is - and Jerome was locked away in Arkham. That’s how his little, now big, collection had started.  
The police had their theories as well, though these ones had been a bit more rational and realistic. He didn’t bother cutting those out of the papers.

Time passed and the unprofessional shots taken in a hurry as Jerome had been escorted out of, what Jeremiah assumed was, the GCPD were replaced with mugshots. Jerome’s eerie grin and intense eyes followed Jeremiah everywhere the following days. Jerome was the talk of the town. His eyes stared at him from the tv in the living room, from the front page of the newspaper in the kitchen as well as every time he opened the drawer of his nightstand to place yet another cutout inside and everywhere he didn’t see his face, he heard his name.  
He pushed the prickly feeling spreading under his skin away, hands rubbing over his skin and lips parted as he took deep breaths from all the way down in his stomach. Thoughts creeping into his mind were shoved away as well, deemed irrational and preposterous.

Jerome was shipped off to Arkham Asylum and that was it. The fuss died down and slowly but surely the name "Jerome Valeska" left the citizens of Gotham’s lips for - presumably - the last time. The city went once again back to normal, as normal as it could get here, and it got quiet.  
Jeremiah let out a sigh of relief - no, in satisfaction, he told himself. Jerome was safely locked away and out of reach, as he would continue to be for who knows how long. Ideally it would be forever, but as they say; You can’t always get what you want. 

It had been quiet for a while. Jeremiah might not have been able to forget about Jerome like everyone else had, but at least he could pretend. Jerome was in Arkham. Behind several bars and walls. Locked in a little cell. Trapped.  
And he was, until he wasn’t anymore. 

It had been all over the news. Article after article, news report after news report, like dominos falling. Jeremiah, as always, watched. The Maniax they called themselves - fitting name he had to admit, yet cheesy. Their mugshots were lined up everywhere. The picture of the bodies spread on the ground spelling out the band of lunatics’ name was ingrained in his mind by now. Once again Jerome was the talk of the town, though this time not only him.  
The feeling came back, creeping up his back as if little spiders were crawling over his skin, leaving an odd sensation behind. It was difficult to describe and he didn’t know where it came from and he ignored it, once again deeming it irrational and odd, but something not to be worried about. 

Jeremiah lost count of the days the Maniax "reigned" the city. His drawer of cutouts had grown quite full. Jerome and his little gang of lunatics had been up to a lot over the past few weeks. Or had it been months? A year?  
Though considering he was graduating in just days, he’d get more space once he moved somewhere else on his own. Perhaps he’d get file drawers for all his papers, not just the cutouts, but the drawings as well and the blueprints. 

One day had been unlike the others. Jeremiah had watched Jerome die on tv. He’d watched him get a knife to the neck and bleed out on the floor. Later he’d seen pictures of his brother’s dead body, lips pulled into a smile, blood running down his face and blank, expressionless eyes staring into nothing. He’d managed to get a cutout of that as well before the paper got thrown out.  
Sitting on the edge of his bed that night, he stared at the cutout. Those same eyes had been so... full of life just days ago. Had the circumstances been different he might have cried - his brother was dead after all - but without as much as a tear he opened the drawer and placed it inside. He shut it and went to bed, feeling lighthearted, unconcerned and oddly safe. 

For once in his life, Jerome was gone from Jeremiah’s thoughts. He’d usually been creeping in the background in his head, but now, he was gone. Completely gone. Because he was actually gone. Gone. Dead. Deceased. You name it, he was it.  
For once in his life, Jeremiah didn’t have a care in the world as he went out the door. He walked down the streets with no worries. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder, worried his brother was going to be standing there. Why? Because he was dead. He was gone forever. Oh how nice that felt to say, in his head, out loud, to his mirror in the morning, as he checked the newspaper and found it free of the name "Jerome Valeska", everywhere. It just felt so good. It was a confidence boost really. Anything was possible. Why? Because Jerome could never bother him ever again.

Jeremiah graduated. Rented a little place of his own, nothing too big, just something temporary to stay in until he sorted his life out - his life free of Jerome - while he built that bunker he’d been planning since what, six? Seven? It had changed a lot since then, from a maze on a little piece of stained paper - thanks, Jerome - to the blueprint it was now.  
Jerome was still dead. He wasn’t sure what they’d done with him, who "they" were and where he was, but that didn’t matter. As long as Jerome was a dead man, Jeremiah was a happy man.  
At some point over the next few years, during his career as an engineer - his dream job since he was a little child drawing mazes in the mud with a stick, in his notebook, on his pillow as he was falling asleep - he met Ecco, his assistant. She was nice, alright to be around, did her job well and he kept her around. Life was good.

Jeremiah’s life was slowly coming together. His little maze bunker was well under way, almost done actually, he had gotten a good education, money was no issue and he had Ecco who often accompanied him so it wasn’t often he was alone which was nice for a change.  
It was mostly just at his apartment he was alone, but he didn’t do much there anyway except sleep and eat. He’d wake up, eat something, leave for work and come back a while later in the day, tired and ready to go to bed again. 

This day is much the same, yet a little different. There is something off. He notices it the second his eyes open that morning and he looks around the slightly blurry room. He stays in bed for a moment, tries to get a taste of this feeling and find out what it is and where it comes from. There’s a tightness in his chest, worry creeping into his mind and something he just can’t place a finger on and describe. It’s an alien feeling, yet familiar in a way, as if he’s felt like this before, but his mind just hasn’t realised it yet. 

He stands up, gets his glasses so he can finally see properly and goes to get some clothes. Fully dressed he turns to the mirror to check his appearance. He does an involuntary jump as he catches his reflection and his heart races in his chest for a few seconds before it finally calms down. How weird, he thinks to himself, adjusting his glasses and pushing some strands of hair back with the rest. There. Perfect.  
He takes a moment to enjoy the silence. Young, barely a decade old Jeremiah would have loved this. Silence, peace, a permanent - permanent enough - non-vehicle home and not to mention no Jerome. It’s nice. 

"He’s gone," he whispers to himself, still standing in front of the mirror. "He’s dead," he tells himself. He lets out a breathy laugh. The tightness in his chest is still there. He takes a few deep breaths and pauses to check again. Still there. Perhaps just nerves. The bunker is nearly finished. It’s normal to be a little nervous about a project as big as this, right?  
"He’s dead," he repeats one last time before finally letting his gaze leave the mirror.

A while later than normal he trods into the kitchen, though time is not something he‘s lacking. He always makes sure to wake up early. One light, easy to make breakfast later and he leaves for the living room to turn on the tv like he usually does in the morning. Checking the news is something really necessary in the city of Gotham, considering all the crime, the psychos, the lunatics, and the list goes on. One could never know if the traffic would be blocked because of some villain blowing something up again or a place being closed because some other villain decided to rob it blind.

The feeling in his chest doesn’t fade. It does quite the opposite actually, tightening even more to the point Jeremiah is surprised he can even breathe properly. 

"He’s not dead." 

Jerome is standing right there, on tv, very much alive. Jeremiah doesn’t know what to say, nor what to think. He had seen him die, he was sure of it. It had been all over the news. Jerome Valeska - Dead. He’d seen pictures of his brother’s very dead body several days afterwards and he had been just that, very dead. And now, somehow, he wasn’t. 

Jeremiah laughs. He sits down on his couch, eyes on the tv screen and he laughs. Jerome isn’t dead. The universe really did him dirty this time, didn’t it? 

They look almost nothing alike now, Jeremiah notes as he’s once again seated on his couch a few days later. His brother’s messed up face has healed and the scars are unsightly, hideous really. He has a permanent smile on his face now, one that looks even creepier than before if that was possible. Jeremiah barely recognises the young boy he’d left behind that one night. How long ago was that now?  
He can still remember the peaceful expression on his then young brother’s face. He’d looked so... Normal. Ordinary. So much like himself. So much has changed since then. 

His bunker’s done, to the tiniest details. Jeremiah doesn’t waste a second, packing his blueprints, his notes, his drawings, files and everything he needs in his new office before leaving his apartment, the first smile he’s shown in days plastered on his face. He’s happy. The universe has finally done something good to him. His several years long project is finished and it looks just like he’d imagined it would, he’s got a maze bunker now and guess what? Jerome is back in Arkham. Right where that little madman belongs. Hopefully he stays there this time. 

Once again, life is good.

Until it isn’t. Good things don’t seem to last long for Jeremiah. They say bad things happen to bad people. Then why does all the bad things seem to happen to Jeremiah, and not Jerome, the actual bad person in this scenario? Jeremiah doesn’t know the answer to that. He just hopes those good things are going to replace the bad ones and actually last.  
They do say good things don’t come easy, he tells himself. Eventually, the good things will come. One day. 

That day doesn’t seem to be any of the ones in the following weeks, nor the ones after that. Jerome, the little devil, escapes the grasps of Arkham Asylum once again. Honestly, that prison really needs a reality check. It’s more of a hotel by this point, the prisoners mere guests, strolling right back out of the place as they please.  
A prison doesn’t seem to be enough for Jerome Valeska. Nothing but death is good enough and Jeremiah’s chest tightens at the thought.

He’s not alone this time either. Ganging up with other loonies seems to be a common occurrence for Jerome. He went through them like Jeremiah went through cups of coffee - many. Last time it was the Maniax. Now it’s Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane, names Jeremiah’s familiar with, but not an expert on. Who’s it going to be next? The ever-rising Penguin? The riddle guy? 

The file drawer, one of the few he got, is full now. Newspaper cutouts are almost pouring out of it as he opens it. They’re all dated and sorted. He’d gone through them the other day when he’d moved all his stuff down here, into the bunker. Everything from the very first article, which seems so very long ago now, to the newest one, or should he say the second newest. The newest is in his hand. He’d found it on the third page this time. Seems like Jerome is losing his touch. He’d earned a spot on the cover on this paper all last week. 

He manages to squeeze it in. It’s another murder, though there’s something special about this one. It’s not just any murder. It’s the murder of Zachary Trumble, or should he say uncle Zack. Unlike the murder of their mother, this one had been a bit surprising. Jeremiah thought Jerome might have forgotten the man even existed. He himself had, until now. He hasn’t seen him since that night all those years ago when the man they had called their uncle had dropped him off at St. Ignatius.

Jeremiah sits on his knees, eyes taking in the sight of all the papers. How many were there now? Hundreds? Adjusting his glasses, he reaches out to look through them, every single one. He doesn’t count them. He’ll be here for hours if he does.  
Eventually he reaches the piece of paper he just put there and he pulls away. His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose and he pushes them back. His hand trembles ever so slightly and his fingers touch the glass, leaving an imprint. He ignores it. 

Jerome found their uncle, their uncle who took him away and dropped him off at St. Ignatius. It’s obvious. How is he just now realising this? This is bad. Really bad. Jeremiah can hear him already. 

"He’s coming for me," he whispers into the silent room of his bunker. How was he realising this now? He should have known.

Who is he kidding? Of course he already knew. He’s known since day one. Why else would he have had the idea of building an underground maze? This wasn’t his dream office. It was a hideout.


End file.
